Think about Gypsies—
like smoke n the evening they cross a border.
They don’t believe in it, and they say if God
doesn’t care nobody cares. In the morning
their wagons are gone, carrying their stories
away. They like the sound of a wheel
and have given up owning a place. They roll
beyond old newspapers and broken glass and
start a new campfire. Sometimes, going up
a steep hill, they get off and walk forward
and whisper the oldest secret in the world
into the ears of their horses.